


the politics of fear.

by dickovny



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Established Relationship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, i don't even know what this is tbh, some nebulous place post-series, unfettered id-posting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28235022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickovny/pseuds/dickovny
Summary: Malcolm likes it when Nicola gets angry.Nicola finds a bit of self-confidence in the whole affair.
Relationships: Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	the politics of fear.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweatingHerLadyBollocksOff/gifts).



> Someone said "Malcola choking fic." So naturally - I said "Yes and."

“Do you want me to hurt you?”

She shuffles back and forth, the stool she’s perched on doesn’t sit evenly on the floor and it tips a little when she does. Malcolm doesn’t hear her question - or at the very least he doesn’t seem to, keeping all of his attention on the rhythmic stir of his wooden spoon within his risotto. It took her a decent amount of courage to even broach the subject. Having to repeat herself at this juncture is tantamount to bamboo under her nails.

She takes a sip of her wine, some white Mediterranean thing with a salt tang that makes her mouth water, and grapples with her nerves. There shouldn’t be anything to be nervous about. They’ve been through enough with each other over the years that asking about his sexual preferences should be cake by comparison. But everything about this is so new - sitting at his kitchen island, drinking his wine while he cooks her risotto, idly rubbing her fingertips against the lovebite from earlier this evening forming on her collarbone - that each interaction makes her stomach do amateur gymnastics.

To top it off, Nicola has never been one to really openly discuss this sort of thing anyway. It’s not that sex with James wasn’t _good_ or that he didn’t _try_. He certainly did spend a fair amount of time poking around down there when he felt so inclined. But they were so young when they got together that Nicola hadn’t felt very comfortable giving any kind of feedback or direction. So she faked it. Once or twice. Then a few times more. Before she knew it, years had passed and she couldn’t find a way to _stop_ faking it without admitting that, well. She had been faking it all along.

Things were so different with Malcolm. Whereas James didn’t speak, instead just grunting and huffing like a caveman - Malcolm did not shut up. A torrent of descriptions, expletives, promises, questions. “D’you like that?” or “you want harder, love?” or “is it better when I do _this_ or _that_?” By their third time, Nicola had caught herself telling him rather explicitly what to do with his hands. Before she could reflect on what exactly that signified, she was trembling against his fingers and he was cooing filthy compliments in her ear. By their fifth time, Nicola was so distracted by his inability to close his mouth for even a second that she threatened to put a gag on him.

And he _whimpered._

“You like tarragon, right?” He calls over the towel draped on his shoulder. “Coriander’s the one you can’t fuckin’ stand.” 

He’s right, of course. Perpetually observant fucker that he is. She loves tarragon. And she hates coriander. It tastes like soap on her tongue.

But he isn’t the only one who can be observant. That helpless little whimper had stuck with Nicola the whole last week. It was an _illuminating_ reaction. Snapshots of intimate moments here and there flooded back to her. The way he particularly enjoys the scrape of her nails against his scalp or when she digs them into his sides. The constant desire for affirmation and praise and for her to enjoy herself. But more than that - she thinks of the way they worked together so long ago. He would yell and stomp and flail at her just like he did at everyone else. But then she would _shout back_ and he would pause and do this _thing_ \- his tongue would dart out across his lower lip, his eyes flickering up and away from her. And now she’s seeing all of that for what it was.

Inhale. Exhale. Into the breach.

“Yeah. Tarragon’s great - listen. Malcolm.” There’s a nervous edge to her tone, the words coming out in unsteady dribs and drabs. His shoulders tense and he fumbles with the spoon. It thuds clumsily against the Le Creuset that she is in no way surprised he owns. “No, it’s nothing wrong. It’s nothing bad. I promise.”

Turning down the burner, he places the lid atop the risotto and turns to face her, wiping his hands with the towel. “Then what is it? Cause you sound like you’re about to pass clean the fuck out in my kitchen. And I’d really rather not eat dinner while a strappin' young paramedic loads you on a gurney.”

“It’s nothing, really. Honestly. I probably shouldn’t have even brought it up.” She takes a healthy gulp of wine, Malcolm reaching over to refill her glass.

“Your hands are shakin’, Nic. I think you should tell me.” Placing the bottle of wine on the island in front of her, he leans against the counter, folding his arms tightly across his chest. She’d really rather he stayed facing the stove, instead of just gazing at her intently. Damn. “Whatever it is, I can fuckin’ take it.”

“Do you - hm. I’m not sure how to phrase this. Which is foolish. Because I’ve been thinking about it all week.” There’s a flush creeping up her throat and along her jaw. She can feel the heat radiating off of her skin. Her ears will turn magenta at this rate. “It seems like - I can’t tell for sure. But. It seems like you want me to _hurt_ you.”

He pauses for a moment, cocking an eyebrow as he tilts his head. Rubbing at his jaw with his palm, Nicola can tell that he has no fucking clue what she’s trying to articulate. So she’s either disastrously off-base or hasn’t made her point at all.

“I don’t mean metaphorically. If that’s what you - I mean literally. Sexually,” she offers hurriedly, and Malcolm coughs slightly. He starts to interrupt, but if she stops now she can’t be sure she’ll ever find it within herself to continue. Can’t stop pulling the plaster off halfway through. Better to rip it off in one go. “I think that - sexually of course - you want me to be _mean_ to you. To - to hurt you. Not in a bad way - fuck. I’m rubbish at this. But you like it when I scratch you and when I nibble at you. And I’ve realized that, well. It might be egotistical of me to say this. But I’ve realized that you _liked_ it whenever I shouted at you. And then last time I threatened to gag you and you got very _animated_ about things after that.” 

Malcolm’s lips move but no words come out. His hands helplessly hang in the air, eventually settling for running through his hair. “You’ve noticed, then.”

“Oh?” She asks, taking another sip of her wine. Her face threatens to explode in a self-satisfied grin, but she aims for nonchalance instead. “So I was … right?”

“In a roundabout way, yeah.” He makes a so-so gesture with his hand. She watches his throat bob as he swallows heavily before continuing. “Does it bother you? That I might want that.”

“No! God. No, not at all.” The atmosphere of the room has thickened considerably and Nicola is finding it somewhat difficult to breathe. She thinks absentmindedly that the risotto is getting cold. And that they aren’t going to be getting to it anytime soon. Shame. “I don’t particularly understand the impulse, if I’m being honest. But I’m not offended or anything. I’d be willing to - to try it. For you. If you’d like that.”

Nicola has never known him to be anything less than verbose - the hesitancy he is displaying is alarming. She has touched far deeper of a nerve than she had anticipated. Before she can regret her decision, he shuffles on his feet, nudging the waistband of his trousers and _oh._ He may have been slick about it, but Nicola can tell when a man is making a readjustment, so to speak.

“If you’re willing to tell me what it is that you’d like me to do,” she squeaks out. Her thighs rub together uncomfortably, shifting in her seat. He shakes his head with an exasperated little grin.

“It’s not goin’ to work if you keep bein’ all soft like that,” he scoffs, turning back to the stove. “I’m not fragile, Nic’la.”

Of course. He couldn’t possibly imagine her being anything other than gentle little Nicola. Malcolm Tucker with all of his assumptions. Twat.

“You don’t think I can do it, do you?” She bites out with more force than she anticipated. Wine glass in hand, she eases off of her stool and crosses to him. Stopping alongside him, she drops her voice into a snarl. “You don’t think - you know what? Go fuck yourself, you fucking prick.”

There is a slight wobble in his knees, his hand gripping the counter with a white-knuckled intensity. “That. Fuckin’ - say that again, Nic’la.”

This is not entirely unpleasant. In fact, there is a slight tug in the pit of her stomach at the plea in his voice. She runs her tongue across her teeth, setting her glass on the counter and slipping a hand around his waist.

“Go. Fuck. Yourself. Prick.” The words have barely hissed past her teeth when he groans, struggling in vain to turn around and face her. Bracing herself against him, gripping the ledge of the counter on either side, she has him pinned. With her face pressed against his shoulder blade, his crisp white dress shirt cool against her cheek, Nicola can hear the thrum of his heart in his chest. This is - this is quite nice actually. “You miserable fucking bastard.”

There’s a tremble working its way from his toes to his ears, and the whine in the back of his throat is doing wonderful things for her ego. Despite the fact that, standing barefoot against the tile, she barely comes up to his shoulder - Nicola feels like she’s ten feet tall. This is more than nice. This is bloody excellent.

“D’you want to maybe take this upstairs?” He whispers, straining to turn and look at her face. And there it is. His eyes looking up and away as his tongue runs across his lip. That stupid little tell. She fucking knew it.

“Tell me this first,” she coos, skating a fingernail along the soft skin of the inside of his wrist. “All of those times you would barge into my office. Banging on about things. You’d shout at me, right? But then I would shout _back._ And - it turned you on, didn’t it? You _wanted_ me to fight you.”

Gazing up at him, she can see a vein in his throat gently pulsating and - my _god._ He’s flushed. She’s actually made Malcolm Fucking Tucker _blush_.

“C’mon, Malcolm. Tell me.” She increases the pressure of her nail on his wrist, earnestly scratching him and he shivers. “You’ve never gone quiet on me before.”

There is a moment of silence - she worries that she’s crossed a line or that he genuinely might faint. But something in him wins out, and he relents. “Yes. I fuckin’ adored it, alright? God, yes. You have no idea - so fuckin’ gorgeous when you’re angry, Nic’la. Fuckin’ spectacular.”

However aroused he may be by this confession, it hits Nicola tenfold. Her head spins, blood humming in her ears. She closes her eyes and simply inhales his cologne and the tarragon that they will not be enjoying for the foreseeable future. The entire thing is just as terrifying as it is exhilarating. She feels as if she is standing on a great precipice. The pool at the bottom seems spectacularly cool and would soothe her completely but in order to _get_ there she needs to jump.

“ _Nic’la,_ ” he begs, throaty and low, and it’s all she needs to push her over the edge. It sends electric tingles all the way to her toes, and if Nicola were a younger woman she’d hop on the counter and fuck him right then and there. But at this stage in her life she appreciates the comfort of a nice soft bed. She weaves her fingers in his, pulling him gently away from the counter. Malcolm follows her in a spellbound daze.

“Right then. Let’s go. I’ll be terrifically cross. If that’s what does it for you, apparently,” she teases with a grin, letting loose a full-throated cackle when he gives her a playful slap on the arse. “Fucking maniac.”

The journey upstairs is handsy and lighthearted. But closing the bedroom door behind them, Nicola experiences a temporary unease. Yes, she has been naked and sweaty in compromising positions while calling for God in this very room, but it’s only been a handful of times so far. And prior to that - things with Malcolm were _complicated,_ to say the least. So the sensation is still distinctly odd.

“Y’know, Nic - you don’t have to do this if you don’t want.” He stands, somehow _more_ awkwardly than she does, with his back against the door and his hands in his pockets. And as much as it’s being offered to her as an out, it feels like more of a challenge than anything else. Before she can let herself get tangled in a web of self-doubt, she lunges for him - perhaps a little ungainly in her haste. But what she lacks in grace she more than makes up for enthusiasm, if the surprised moan that falls into her mouth is anything to go by.

“Shut up. Please. Shut the fuck up, Malcolm,” she breathes between open-mouthed kisses, frantically working at the buttons of his shirt and shimmying it down his arms. _Before I lose my nerve,_ she thinks to herself. And then he’s trying to take her blouse off - which doesn’t feel right. Not what she’s trying to go for. She catches a flash of inspiration and squashes down the wave of anxiety that comes with the idea. Nicola does her best to sound something approximating authoritative. “Fuck. Lie down. On the bed. _Now._ ”

The way that his steely eyes drink her in, lounging against the headboard, is enough to put her heart in her throat. He hungrily worries his bottom lip with his teeth, and the expression on his face when she stands before him, fingers deftly releasing the buttons of her blouse, is the most fantastic thing she’s ever seen. In an attempt to keep with the mood, she undresses with great haste, her blouse and skirt pooling around her feet. She knows that she’s blushing, can feel the heat on her chest. So she keeps pushing forward, forging a path into whatever this is that’s unfolding this evening between them.

Shirtless, she can clearly see the rise and fall of his chest with each ragged inhale and she watches it transfixed. Angry right? He wanted angry. She can do angry. Nicola straddles him, and as she opens his belt and unzips his trousers, she thinks of every time she’s wanted to hit him. To bite him. To tell him to take a flying leap into the fucking Thames. She thinks of slamming the door in his face in Eastbourne and stomping on that stupid little cushion and before she’s really _aware_ of what she’s doing his trousers are gone and she’s lowered herself against him, his hard length pressing against the fabric of her knickers. But more than that - there’s a hand in his hair and the other has wound its way _around his throat_.

She’s terribly shocked with herself - the desire to choke him has never once occurred to her. Her eyes search his, looking for some semblance of permission or confirmation, and he _grins._ This jagged, wild thing. His hands drift to her hips, pulling her against him in a lazy rhythm. In response, she increases the pressure of her grip, pressing upward against his jaw. Malcolm’s eyelids flutter, a growl caught in his throat.

“You like that? Of course you fucking do,” she whispers against his ear, raking her fingernails unkindly against his scalp. His breaths are labored from the pressure against his throat, but if the constant feel of him sliding against her is any indication - Christmas has come early for Malcolm. “You’re so fucking _weak_ for me. You’re like fucking putty in my hands.”

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” He wheezes with a smirk, and she trails her hand from his scalp to his length, palming at it roughly and delighting in the sharp intake of breath that follows. She’s choking Malcolm Tucker. She’s got the Dark Lord of Spin’s throat in her hand - an opportunity that many would cough up a small fortune to indulge in. And he’s practically gagging for it. This is the most intoxicating power she’s ever felt in her life.

“Please, Malcolm. We both know - you can’t resist me, can you?” It’s a bit difficult, sliding her knickers to the side and holding them out of the way as she angles him into her one-handed. But she can’t bring herself to remove the hand from his neck. It’s too fabulous. “I’ve been your weakness from the start. It’s always been me. Admit it.”

“Not on your fuckin’ life,” he snarls, digging his fingers into her hips and thrusting himself upward into her. This isn’t what he wants though - or at least not what he _needs._ Forgoing her grip on his throat, she makes for his hands. There’s a struggle between them. But Nicola plays dirty, squeezing his sides with her thighs and dragging herself against him in that particular way he likes. It erodes his willpower just enough for her to pull his hands above his head, pinning them against the headboard.

“Fucking admit it, Malcolm.” She gambles on how distracted he is by her movements, maneuvering both of his wrists into her left hand so that she can return to his throat with her right. He could stop her at any moment, overpower her easily. This they both know. But he’s enjoying himself far too much to do any such thing. “You’re weak around me. Fucking say it or I swear to God I’ll stop _right now_.”

It must be incredibly difficult for him to talk - between the lack of oxygen and the frankly obscene rhythm she’s beginning to grind out on his lap. But he manages with great effort to croak something out.

“Yes - Nic’la. I’m fuckin’ - it’s you. It’s always been you.” There’s a stammer to his voice now - unrelated to the restriction of air, entirely due to the oncoming orgasm that’s coiling in his belly. She’s familiar enough with the way his tone starts to fray, the frantic desperation clouding his features.

“Good. Thank you. Now shut the fuck up,” she snarls at him, before using the hand under his jaw to direct his face upward into a bruising kiss. The pace she’s adopted is delicious but punishing. Nicola knows in the back of her mind that not only will she be very sore and full of complaints in the morning - but that she doesn’t have much more of this in her. Thankfully, it doesn’t matter. Not for long. His hips are involuntarily jerking up in staccato and his tongue is less dexterous than it usually is, fumbling against hers haphazardly. There’s a sharp intake of breath - and then he moans sharply against her mouth, his body spasming once, twice, and then stilling. 

She releases his wrists first, and when she finally takes her hand from his throat it’s a bit stiff. The experimental flex that she gives it leaves them both giggling. They’re both slick with sweat and entirely too out of shape, breathing raggedly between laughs.

“That was - fucking Christ, Malcolm,” she chuckles against his shoulder, bonelessly draped against his torso.

He brings a hand to his own neck, fingertips brushing against the irritated skin. “It’s a good thing I can work from home - or else people would be askin’ a lot of uncomfortable questions about this tomorrow,” he chides. He strokes her side so gently that it tickles and she jumps. “By the by - you didn’t. You know, did you?”

The impulse to lie does not cross her mind.

“No. It’s fine though. I’d like to shower, very quickly.” She hums, starting to detach her sticky self from him. The little red welts forming underneath his jaw fill her with an obscene delight. When he quirks an eyebrow at her in confusion, she elaborates. “If we hurry we can still salvage that risotto. If you’re so keen on it, you can handle me later.”

The look that he gives her guarantees that he will. 


End file.
